Mission 3 - First Strike

  Ta419 - 02/02,

  Bridge of Heavy Tanker ‘EverGreen’.

  On the second day of the second month; in the third era, year four-hundred nineteen - Remembrance would begin its long-awaited vengeance. The force to enact it missed Kigen’s speech, having left early for this very purpose; they were an unremarkable group, remembered in history for nothing other than this action. It did not start in the form of any grand battle or noble skirmish - rather, as Grand Admiral Columbae had feared, it began in a more mundanely tragic way.

  "All stations green, Sir. We hope you enjoy your evening," the heavy-transport-tanker Evergreen’s first mate said, with a practised line of many years.

  The ship’s captain offered a quaint wave to the humble crew while holding back a yawn, "Fair sailing with the night shift lads."

  Just as the middle-aged captain exited the doorway, more than ready for a few well-earned tipples, the navigation officer, a younger lad, called out to him, "Err, actually, sir, could you look at this?"

  Before the captain could answer, the first mate was already scowling, "Whatever is the matter now?" That prompted a smile. The two often bickered like this; his peers still treated the younger man like a rookie despite years onboard. After so many long voyages through the supply lines of space, the crew had become something of a little family.

  "I-it's just, sirs, they are moving too fast to be debris. Too small to be, like, asteroids."

  The Captain paused, "Say that again, lad."

  There wasn't time.

  Before anyone could say another word, a face appeared in the narrow windows of the bridge’s front side. Everyone fell completely stock-still. They were just regular merchant navy but they recognised what that single-eyed machine was;

  "V-vijaik?"

  The face was replaced a moment later by the last thing any of them would ever see: The massive barrel of a mech's rifle.

  Ta419 - 03/02,

  TSU Troy-Class Battle-Carrier Curadh, Meeting Room One.

  “Heh, they should have let us keep all four of those Casnels,” a young male officer whispered to a similarly aged woman.

  “What I want to know is why they let us keep two of them and new Vijaiks as well. Isn’t that kind of a lot for a display ship like ours?”

  “You two haven’t heard?” a third slightly older man cut in, “We’re being reassigned to the front.”

  “The ‘front’? Front of what?” the young male officer replied.

  “Silence now, everyone, if you would,” Head Captain Synapse called from the front of the room with a clap of his hands.

  ‘Meeting room one’ of the Curadh - a lavish space by meeting room standards, with permanent cushioned chairs, soft lighting and weak gravity, just the way Captain Synapse liked it - today was packed. It had always been Synapse’s way to bring his staff in like this before a mission.

  "Everyone, thank you for gathering so promptly. Today marks the beginning of a new operation entitled Rogue-Trader, handed down to us by the Grand Admiral himself.

  In the last two days, while we were passing on mechs to the other ships, a remnant faction of the former Abhialein-Revoultionary-Army calling itself 'Remembrance' made their move. They destroyed three TSU-associated installations; one was a small refuelling station.

  Another was a prominent merchant vessel that, while owned by our government, was crewed entirely by civilians. Another was a training facility for TSU pilots,” now Synapse had the assembly’s attention.

  There had been plenty of small-scale incidents over the last few years. It was well known that Abhialein remnants were out there, but for them to simultaneously strike semi-civilian installations was unheard of. The collective officers of the Curadh sat up more straight.

  “This aligns with what we saw two months ago when the Vanadís secondary development centre was wiped out despite mostly being staffed by civilians. Our newest crewman is one such survivor of the incident," Synapse nodded in Chas's direction. The boy looked a little uncomfortable at the attention, fidgeting in his seat and ruffling the new uniform he’d received as an official addition to the crew's squadron.

  "Our enemy is ruthless and without remorse for non-combatants. Their leadership are veterans of the last war, ready to apply themselves without restraint. Our mission is not an easy one. We will likely see more combat than any other unit in the coming days as we endeavor to help stem these rampant attacks," Syanapse paused to allow questions if needed.

  The ship's quartermaster spoke up, "Captain Sir, what of supplies and reinforcements?"

  Synapse smiled in a way that suited his old face. What captain could ask for a more practical response when informing his staff of such a large-scale mission, "A good question. We have been granted a supply barge. Its small crew will be included as part of our own from now on, and while it has no combat capabilities, its supplies and munitions should grant us almost twice our ordinary active field time. The Admiral also believes that while some installations may scorn us for being publicly a 'rogue' unit, others should be more open, especially if we just prevented their deaths.

  We should use such bases, where opportunities arise, to refuel in any way we can. Moreover, in the event we are too late but discover survivors, even lone ships from routed fleets, we have the authority to take them under my command to bolster our numbers. Finally, the Admiral will be feeding us information from his intelligence division. We will be the best-informed unit there is."

  A general murmur of approval ran through the assembly, and Synapse allowed himself another smile. Most of this crew had already served through one devastating war, it would not be unreasonable for them to hesitate at this latest mission and the suddenness of it - yet they seemed ready. Ready to save lives perhaps, excited at the prospect of getting back to battle, or simply prepared to finish what should have ended five years ago - the reasons varied but didn't matter to the captain - they were his crew, and they were ready.

  "Our next stop is listening station R-34, in the orbit of Bhaile's moon. It is an entirely civilian-operated installation under TSU ownership. The force heading towards it is twenty-five ships strong. The station itself has no defences. We may have to abandon it with time against us and only this single ship; however, with two Casnels on our side, if we can arrive in time, there is ample opportunity to ‘convince’ Remembrance that fighting such mechs wouldn't be in their best interest. It won't be pretty if it goes wrong; it is also the inaugural flight of the new generation Casnels.

  It is likely all our missions to come will have odds like this, but so what? We’ve seen off worse!" a brief cheer rose, "The actions of our enemies threaten what little peace we won back in the last five years. Threaten to throw everything into madness and depravity once more. I ask all of you to help me in playing whatever part we can in stopping that, in maintaining order and protecting the lives of innocents. What say you, lads?"

  "AYE!" roared the room as one, from the lowest officer to the first mate. Synapse nodded. He couldn't ask for more. It was game time at last.

  Ta419 - 04/02,

  Orbit around TSU Owned Listening Station R-34.

  Upon a picture-perfect night sky were a number of small blemishes. At their centre, a circular space station, one of many used to broadcast transmissions and, in this particular one’s case, train students having their first experience out in space.

  To the installation's far side was a somewhat disconcerting sight: Two dozen triangular warships surrounded by small mechanised figures. To the opposite sat its only hope, a lone vessel painted in whites and creams with the appearance one could say of a sphinx - two long runway outcrops for legs and a tall bridge perch for a head. And out from that strange ship came two bright lights, two Casnels.

  "Alright, Chas, just take it nice and textbook," Commander Donald Moncha called over his short band radio.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "No crazy shit, just basic manoeuvres. ‘Any malfunction happens, or you feel overwhelmed, just get behind me or the others. The enemy is a scout unit for now. We take them out decisively, and that fleet might decide to keep its distance."

  "Right Sir, I promise."

  Moncha raised his eyebrow slightly at the word 'promise', but it was good enough. He'd been afraid Chas might be averse to military order, but the boy seemed to be giving it his best effort not to get in the way.

  They had launched from the Curadh in the gleaming white shapes of Casnels, thrusters glowing blue behind them as they raced to reach the station first. The enemy scouts had a head start, but the angular humanoid shapes and sloping back of these new Casnel's speciality was speed, and it showed.

  Moreover, two lifeboats had left the station, meaning now it was a battle to protect the asset and not the people. That suited Moncha just fine; if things went tits up, at least Chas wouldn't end up feeling guilty for letting civilians die on his first outing.

  "You're entering the enemy scout’s range commander,” the Curadh’s comms officer said.

  "Roger that command. Here we go, Chas!"

  Moncha increased speed a little to pull ahead and be the primary target. The action in a lesser machine would have caused no shortage of strain at the mach speeds they were already moving, but inside the clean, space-age-looking cockpit, it was almost unnoticeable.

  This was the real beauty of the new machines, in Moncha's opinion; so clean, so resistant to the forces their speed should exert, it felt like magic to a man used to dingy Vijaik cockpits and fighter jets that pushed you to the brink of consciousness if you went too far. The exterior of his new machine was no joke either. The ‘G-type’ was built for speed and compactness - shorter than most mechs and with a jet-like ‘nose’ and slim limbs. Sleek was the word that came to Moncha’s mind, watching Chas’s sister unit through his monitors.

  The inside wasn’t just shock-resistant. Despite the loss in height, the G-type had the same amount of cockpit space as other mechs, a circular core, though you seldom noticed how the walls were rounded owing to the many monitor screens in front of them.

  The chair was virtually identical to that of a fighter jet, but there was more room than one of those. In place of armrests were the control shafts, which could be pulled and swung around to operate the mech’s directional thrusters. Behind those on either side were rows of switchboards, piano-like keyboards and down on the floor some rather large levers - railway clasps Moncha often thought they looked like - that could be used for manual venting when needed. All told, you could just about stand up in the lowest part of the circle, the footwell, though it was a little head-scratching for someone of Moncha’s height. Not that you should be standing, given everything was designed to be within reach, much of the monitor screens and control boards on moveable boom arms that the pilot could do with as they saw fit.

  Were Moncha to compare it to cars, his last Vijiak had been a rundown pickup, a serviceable but tatty cabin, faded instructions labels and a worn-out chair. This Casnel was the opposite, a top-of-the-line sports mobile with all the mod-cons, and the Commander couldn’t have been more excited to try it all out.

  The enemy rapidly came into sight, known as the 'Type-B' - a mech Remembrance had designed and produced themselves. It had the odd theming of an insect, a dung beetle, Moncha guessed. The machine had large, rounded shoulders and a single combined neck and headpiece.

  Painted in a light brown livery, it was a stout-looking mech. Intelligence suggested it was tough for a Vijiak, good armour but relatively slow and not exceptionally hard-hitting. A fairly standard Gen-2 mech.

  Said 'standard' currently numbered six and, with expert timing, opened fire all at once. Vibrant, glowing bolts of orange lighting streaked through the sky, lighting up the black of space. Moncha wasted no time; his machine dived and rolled, ducked and fainted, looking more like a jet in a dogfight than a mecha. The energy blasts sizzled near his machine, yet none landed on its pristine white surfaces.

  Sparing a quick look to a side camera he caught sight of Chas dodging the few that had been fired at him with a similar dignity. Simpler movements, perhaps, but no less impressive for a first-timer. 'Perhaps that A-ranking is the real deal'.

  Before long, the barrage thinned as Moncha closed the distance. He held up his left hand, mounted on it like some strange bayonet was a spear, his machine's custom weapon.

  With an almighty hydraulic force, the shaft launched forward at a rattling speed. The nearest enemy wasn't fast enough to dodge at this range; the spearhead, a glowing arc-staff, slammed into its chest like a harpoon.

  'Good defences indeed,' Moncha mused as the chest armour of the Type-B held, c crack lines forming around the impact.

  Still moving at an absurd speed, the Commander didn’t bother with the retractable cable on the spear’s tail, instead grabbed it out of the air after it rebounded off the enemy’s armour and, not slowing for a second, rammed it a second time into the stunned mech. This time, it hit with all the momentum of his machine, puncturing in through the heart of the stocky Type-B and then out the back.

  "Yeeeee Ha!" Moncha yelled as the thrill and sheer power of his machine threatened to overwhelm him.

  He finally hit the brakes and turned around. Pressing a button, the chain attached to the back of the spear slowly retracted, towing the Type-B with it until it reached the Casnel.

  Yanking the weapon free, he pushed aside the enemy and let his armament fall back into its mounting on his right arm. Running his hand along the expensive keyboard on his left, his mech raised its other arm. On it was mounted a small circular cannon, the face containing three smaller circles that now glowed a faint yellow. It was too small a weapon for ranged fighting, but Moncha was no less intrigued by what a ‘gatling energy weapon’ could do.

  Having turned around, he watched four more enemies staring him down, their faces expressionless, their rifles at the ready. Although he imagined inside, the pilots were probably either very mad for their fallen comrade or shitting themselves at the sight of a Casnel. A little further off, he could see the ring shape of the listening station, still intact for now anyway.

  Of most interest was the sixth enemy and Chas. Having successfully covered the distance (not a manoeuvre most pilots would attempt in the first place), Chas had now locked blades with the foe, his glowing arc staff against the enemy’s chainsaw-like Calabar blade, and it looked like Chas was winning. That made Moncha smile.

  "Bam!" he shouted as he broke the brief pause; his gatling laser cannon was a magnificent sight to behold. A dozen thin yellow bolts of energy coursed free from it, sweeping in a wave and causing his foes to shield rather than fire on him. As expected, the damage was minimal, but the effect was spectacular.

  Moncha grabbed the first enemy's corpse and tossed it in front of himself. The fastest Type-Bs to recover fired their weapons at nothing but their fallen ally. Breaking from the cover, Moncha's short white Casnel lunged at the next enemy, reared up with an uppercut, his left arm rammed into the bulky brown mech's sternum. Of course, the damage of a fist was not his aim. A second later, the gatling fired again, this time at point-blank range.

  The Commander was almost sad for the lack of sound in space; no doubt the impact of each point-blank energy bolt, cracking through armour, bursting through the internals and then flying free out the mech’s back, would be glorious.

  In an instant, the second type B was down, a spray of fluids bursting free as the energy broke through its back.

  "Whew!" Moncha wiped the sweat from his brow. A glance at Chas showed his Casnel, its arc staff firmly wedged in an enemy mech's heart, the boy having claimed his first-ever kill. Moncha licked his lips, the combat lust intoxicating; he had never known just how insanely overpowered a Casnel could be, "Three more to go. Try an’ grab another before I finish 'em all, Chas!"

  Listening station R-34 would suffer no causalities that day, going down in history as the first of Rememberence’s guerilla war targets to survive unscathed. It would, however, be just the start of Curadh’s long campaign.

  TA419 - 05/02 - Day following the successful defence of Listening Station R-34,

  TSU Home-Fleet Defence Platform Alpha, Grand Admiral’s Office.

  “Reporting Lord Grand Admiral!” Major George Elton saluted smartly as he stepped into the office of TSU’s Grand Admiral.

  “At ease, Major. Take a seat,” Lord Columbae replied from his large aged desk, his back framed by the beautiful panoramic windows of the office, “Word reached me that we finally stopped one. Synapse’s ship.”

  Elton took a seat at the coffee table. He was a tall man, long-limbed and well-built. He was visibly pushing forty, but his eyes remained narrow and bright - his brow currently furrowed, “The rouge ship, you mean?”

  “Yes, the ‘rouge’ ship. It somehow got its hands on two of the Casnels. Took out six Type-B’s in a matter of seconds, scared off the rest of the Remembrance force,” the Admiral said, looking oddly pleased about this Elton felt, though he supposed the Columbae was just glad for a pause in the onslaught of raids carried out over the last week.

  “Remembrance you called them? That's the same crowd we used to call remnants and used to lose to when they were called the Abhialen army, right?” Elton added with a snort, “They can keep changing their name, but if attacking civilians is all they got, then they’re no more than terrorists.”

  “Quite right. While I’m sure our occupation of their planet doesn’t help matters, there can be no excuses for civilian losses like those of the Evergreen. That said, I have it on good authority that they may have their eyes set on some loftier goals, too.”

  “Oh?” Elton leaned forward. He was known as something of a crass man and certainly not one for the politics of The States Union. Still, holding the rank of Major and command of twenty-five other elite pilots, it would be fair to say he was one of the Grand Admiral’s most valuable pieces, if a little unwieldy. “You need me to go knock some heads together?”

  “Eloquently put. It will be in a few days. Beneficial given your ship is still in for servicing, yes? But indeed, I want you to head to Defence Platform Three.”

  Elton’s enthusiasm vanished, “The Platform, why? They ‘ain’t gonna’ attack that. Why not send me to intercept one of these little attacks, save some civilians and all that.”

  “That job we will just have to entrust to the rouge ship Curadh. Trust me, you’ll get your moment.”

  Elton didn’t look convinced at the Admiral’s words. Still, he was hardly one to complain too seriously - besides that - Columbae’s next words bought him all the bargaining power any pilot, especially this one, could ask for, “I would also like to entrust a Casnel to you.”